The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 117, July, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 117, July, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
The hours glided swiftly away as we sat sipping our punch and smoking
our cigars in that quaint study of the Doctor's, chatting of this and of
that; and a novel feature of the evening was, that, as we talked on and
on, the light grew not dim with the passing hours; for when the hand of
a Danish clock which ticked above the mantel told nine, and ten, and
eleven o'clock, it was still broad day; and then in the full blaze of
sunshine the clock rang out the "witching hour" of midnight. The sun,
low down upon the northern horizon, poured his bright rays over the
hills and sea, throwing the dark shadow of the mountains over the town,
but illuminating everything to right and left with that soft and
pleasant light which we so often see at home in the early morning of the
spring.
After the clock had struck twelve, we threw our fur cloaks over our
shoulders, and strolled out into this strange midnight. Passing through
the town, I remarked the quiet which everywhere prevailed, and how all
nature seemed to have caught the inspiration of the hour. Not a soul was
stirring abroad; the dogs, crouching in clusters, were all asleep; and
it seemed as if my little vessel lay under the shadows of the cliffs
with a consciousness that midnight is a solemn thing even in sunshine;
and never did the sun shine more brightly, or a more brilliantly
illuminated landscape give stronger evidence of day. But wearied nature
had sought repose, even though no "sable cloud with silver lining"
turned upon the world its darkening shadow,--for the hour of rest was
come. Walking on over the rough rocks, we came at length upon the sea,
and I noticed that the very birds which were wont to paddle about in
great flocks upon the waters, or fly gayly through the air, had crawled
upon the shore, and, tucking their heads beneath their wings, had gone
to sleep. Even the little flowers and blades of grass seemed to droop,
as if wearied with the long hours of the day, and, defying the restless
sun to rob them of their natural repose, had fallen to sleep with the
beasts and birds. The very sea itself seemed to have caught the
infection of the hour, dissolving in its blue depths the golden clouds
of day.
The night was far from cold, and, selecting the most tempting and sunny
spot, we sat down upon a rock close beside the sea, watching the gentle
wavelets playing on the sand, and the changing light as the sun rolled
on, glistening upon the hills and upon the icebergs, which, in countless
numbers, lay upon the watery plain before us, like great monoliths of
Parian marble, waiting but for the sculptor's chisel to stand forth in
fluted pillar and solid architrave,--floating Parthenons and Pantheons
and Temples of the Sun.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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